


you wrote the song I wanna play

by Sorrel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Ostagar (Dragon Age), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorrel/pseuds/Sorrel
Summary: Looking back, Alistair's pretty sure he was in trouble from the moment he caught her with the flowers.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	you wrote the song I wanna play

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually been sitting on this for a while now. It was originally the prologue of what would have been a much longer work, but life and my short attention span got in the way, so I decided to clean this up and post it as-is.
> 
> Title from "Sick Muse" by Metric.

Looking back, Alistair's pretty sure he was in trouble from the moment he caught her with the flowers.

###### 

Duncan sends word ahead by raven that he's returning and has found another recruit, which sets off a veritable riot of gossip in the camp. They already have two others waiting for the ritual, and group consensus has pegged Daveth as a prick and Ser Jory too obsessed with his own consequence, but Duncan went to Denerim specifically looking for this mystery woman, which makes all of the Wardens entirely too curious. Maker knows that Duncan is hard to impress.

Alistair has every intention to find this new recruit when she gets in, to introduce himself and make sure that her first impression of the Wardens isn't just her fellow recruits. But the Grand Cleric catches hold of him mere minutes after getting word of Duncan's return, and quite obviously takes great pleasure in making him run errands to puff up her own consequence. Alistair liked a lot of things about life in the Templars, but Maker's breath, he does not miss being at the beck and call of the clerics. Wardens have their own command structure, certainly, but at least Warden Commanders have to earn their rank. In his experience, the same can't always be said of clerics.

So it happens that _she_ finds _him_ , in the middle of what is admittedly not one of his finer moments. He _does_ know how important it is that everyone gets along here, no matter what some might say, and it's not like he's not aware that Ostagar is a powder keg waiting to happen. But he doesn't like being used as an insult any more than he likes the Grand Cleric punishing him for daring to leave her service, and he tends to express irritation as sarcasm.

(He tends to express most emotions as sarcasm, but that's an issue for another time.)

So there he is, mouthing off to a mage that is likely fantasizing at that very moment about burning him to a crisp, and then a small, slim girl with short dark hair and too-heavy armor jingles up the steps. She waits for the argument to wear itself out, which is polite of her, and he can't resist making a final smart-ass comment after the mage storms off, which is ill-advised but fun. And she's smiling, too, which makes it worth it. (He doesn't generally care whether people are laughing with him or at him, so long as he makes them laugh. Shame is for the weak.) Encouraged, he keeps up his rambling monologue about _togetherness,_ turning to face her...

And has a blinking moment of surprise when he realizes that she's an elf. Not that it's… bad, or anything! Just that he doesn't usually see a lot of elves wearing armor, even cheap chainmail that's obviously been badly trimmed down to fit her smaller form. The awkward bulk of the armor makes her look weirdly disproportionate, an effect that is only worsened by the delicate prettiness of her face that no amount of travel dirt can disguise.

"I don't think that mage was thinking about working together," she says. There are a number of small twist-braids in her chin-length dark hair, the ends wrapped in fabric that might once have been crimson before time and repeated washings had dulled it down to a faded pink. She flicks one of them out of her eyes with a practiced flip of her head and tilts her chin up to study him. "Tell you true, I do believe he looked like he wanted to set you on fire."

"People have that reaction to me, sometimes,” Alistair says, and gives her a grin, hoping to earn one in return. “I couldn’t possibly tell you why."

"It's a mystery," she agrees solemnly. She has slate-pale eyes, blue-gray like a stormcloud over the ocean. There are little creases at the corners, like she’s holding back the desired smile. "You must be Alistair."

Aaaand she knows his name. "I think I rather must be,” he says, holding his own smile in place with some effort. “I'd like to think that I'd remember if we were introduced." He narrows his eyes at her playfully, his mind ticking over furiously. "You wouldn't happen to be another mage, would you?"

A tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, and she folds her arms over her breastplate, emphasizing the creak of armor. "Is that an actual question?”

“Question with a question, good, I see that you know how this game is played.”

The twitch gets slightly stronger. "Hah. Yes, well, luckily for the peaceful sleep of my elders, I've no magic." She spreads her hands in a shrug. "Duncan sent me to find you."

If he was surprised to see her before, it's nothing to his surprise now. _This_ is Duncan's favored recruit? Alistair was his last pet project, and he turned out rather well, if he does say so himself, so he's sure that she'll do well in the Wardens, but… He had no idea that Duncan was going off to find an elf. An elf _girl,_ as well. Not that there aren't any women in the Wardens! Just… not many. At least in the Ferelden Order; he's heard tell that the Orlesians have far more. Lucky Orlesians.

"Then you must be the new recruit!" he says heartily, hoping that she didn't notice his moment of hesitation. He's not one to judge her on her sex _or_ the length of her ears, just… surprised. "Though I'm sorry to say I can't quite recall your name. Coming from Denerim, right?"

Her face goes still, and he notices the tension in her shoulders. "Straight from the alienage."

Not fooled for a moment, then. He winces and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. "Good trip?" he offers, lamely.

Her haughty expression holds for another moment, then cracks into a slight smile. "Well enough," she allows. "I'm Tabris."

"Right, that's the name." He holds out his hand. "Alistair, as you already know."

She takes his offered hand and shakes. Her hand is smaller than his, certainly, but her grip is firm, and she has a fair number of hilt calluses on her bare palm. Daggers, likely. Not that he knows much of elven biology, but he’d wager she doesn’t have the kind of muscle to wield something much larger. And out of the alienage - well, he knows enough to know that they’re not exactly allowed to carry weapons. Any training she would have gotten would have been in secret, and smaller blades are easier to conceal. Is she a thief, like Daveth? She wouldn’t be the first criminal conscripted into the Wardens, nor the last. Rumor says that even Duncan had A Past, capital letters included, before he was a Warden. Hard to imagine, but...

"Well met."

"And to you," he says, trying not to look like he’s just been attempting to divine her life story from a single handshake. Her hand drops away to her side, and he lets his fall to the hilt of his sword in parade rest so he can't make any stupid gestures. The Revered Mother was always getting on him about that. "So, you're Duncan's newest recruit. It's a high honor, you know. I was the last one, and look how _I_ turned out."

She chuckles slightly, and then looks surprised at her own mirth, folding her arms across her chest defensively. "I'll let you know how honored I feel if I survive the coming battle."

"Yes, well." He shrugs. He doesn't much like the thought of dying to a darkspawn blade, but he always liked the thought of stifling away in Templar armor for the rest of his life even less. Priorities. "I should warn you that people are going to be curious about you, by the way. Duncan's our most senior warden here, so people paid attention when he left to go track down a potential recruit."

“Oh,” she says, and shifts her weight uneasily, glancing away over his shoulder. “I didn’t… Has he said much about me?”

It’s hard to tell if it’s shyness or discomfort in her voice, and he winces against the possibility of the latter, his shoulders tightening up towards his ears. “No?” he offers lamely. “I mean, you know Duncan, he doesn’t say much about _anything._ ”

She purses her lips in what he can only categorize as polite disbelief, but her pale gaze wanders back to catch his once more, so he’s going to call it progress. “I don’t, actually,” she offers, after a silent, tense moment.

“Don’t…?”

“Know Duncan.” She shrugs, a little uncomfortable under his regard. “I’d never met the man before my conscription. It’s been a week on the road and I don’t believe I’ve learned more than his name.”

_Conscription,_ she said. Definitely not a willing convert, then, for all that she doesn’t seem reluctant to be here. “That sounds about right,” he says, trying to keep his ravening curiosity off his face. “The man never uses two words when one will do. I think that’s where I get it,” he adds, aiming for a proper smile now. “The quiet, I mean, I’m a man of few words. Just following his excellent example.”

“Yes, I had noticed that about you.” Her tone is dry as dust, but she’s near to a smile again, he knows it. “Laconic, I’d call you. Verging on terse.”

“At least someone noticed,” he says, smiling back. “So what brings you to the Wardens, Recruit Tabris? It’s not a calling many would follow.”

Her face goes still once more, and he feels doubly the fool, for prying when it’s so clearly unwelcome. “Let’s just say it was the best of a bad set of options,” she says quietly, with a rueful twitch to her cheek. “I’m not sorry to be here, precisely. Just… not how I thought my life would go.”

_Me either,_ he thinks. Even on good days, he’s not entirely sure what drew Duncan to him. It couldn’t have been his bloodline; if anything, it would have been a mark against his joining. There are limits on Warden conscription, and royal blood, even royal bastards, are generally a little past the limit.

Ah well, he'll likely never know. It's not like Duncan will ever tell him the truth.

"Well, whatever the cause, it's good to meet someone willing to wear the griffons," he says, and desperately changes the subject before it can get even more awkward. "Listen, have you eaten? If you're here then we need to get going soon, but knowing Duncan, he dropped you off at camp and told you to find me right away, without a moment's rest."

"You know him well," she says, with the smallest of smiles. She looks like she'd be a merry sort, generally, but whatever circumstances brought her to Ostagar, to the Joining, have left their shadow on her pensive face. "Any chance you could show me to the mess tent? I'm still finding my way around."

"Recruit Tabris, you have said the magic words," he says, and goes to sling an arm around her shoulders. Her flinch is small but noticeable, and he manages to turn it into a comradely clap on the shoulder - fairly smoothly, if he does say so himself - before dropping his hand and stepping subtly away. "I _love_ to eat."

"Why, something else we have in common, then," she says lightly, but from her quick sideways glance, his speedy midair change wasn't missed. Her expression is faintly considering, and vainly, he wonders what she's thinking. "I _also_ love to eat."

"It's the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he declares, and she laughs - a little rusty, but real for all of that. A proper laugh! It's even better than the smile, and he grins back at her foolishly, already planning on how to earn another.

###### 

But yes: the flowers.

Alistair, as the most junior member of the Grey Wardens, is tasked with taking the new recruits into the Korcari Wilds to collect the darkspawn blood for their joining rituals. They don't tell them that's _why_ they're collecting the blood, of course; the joining remains a secret right up until the moment the recruit is presented with the chalice, and will be spoken of only rarely thereafter. Duncan _also_ assigns them the task of hunting down the old Grey Warden treaties, earning an incredulous look from Alistair for _that_ little surprise. Duncan grimaces back at him, behind the backs of the recruits, and signs low by his hip: _long shot._ Fair enough; they are, after all, going to be out there _anyway._ It won't hurt to try.

He can feel Tabris's thoughtful eyes on his back as they go back to the quartermaster, get packs and start filling them with supplies. (They're going to be out there at least overnight, and it won't be safe to hunt since any game they find might well be Blighted.) She doesn't say anything though, just fills her own pack neatly and quickly, though she gives a dubious look to the tent that the quartermaster gives her. Perhaps she hasn't spent much time out of the city. If so, that's a bridge they can cross if they get to it.

She waits until they're out of the gates and the other two are ranging ahead before she says, low-voiced, "Finding those treaties is a long shot, huh?"

_At some point,_ he thinks bitterly, _I’m going to be like Duncan, and learn how to pretend that I know everything and people aren’t constantly surprising me when I least expect it._ Out loud, he says, "We're going out that way anyway," and gives her a sideways glance. "You know battletalk."

_Some,_ she signs, a faint smile on her pretty face. "My mother was deaf in one ear," she continues, "and the work we did you usually didn't want to risk making too much noise. I used to be able to carry on whole conversations, but, well, it's been a while."

"Well, mine's pretty rusty too," he says, wondering a little at that deliberately vague 'work we did' but not enough to actually ask about it. It’s none of his business, anyway, what her life was before she came to them. Not unless she wants to tell it. "Not many of the Wardens use it. You're welcome to practice with me, if you want."

Unbidden, the thought comes to him: _if you survive._ They all try not to think about that, meeting recruits like this, but it's a hard fact he can't ignore. Most don't survive the Joining. The pretty girl with the restrained smile next to him will, by the odds, be dead by the end of the week. He can't let himself think of her as a comrade until she survives.

Unaware of his thoughts, she just nods and ducks her chin a little. "I'd like that," she says quietly, and slips ahead, catching up to the men in front as quietly as a shadow.

That's the thought that stays with him for the rest of the day: that any one of them might be lost when he returns to Ostagar. Alistair thinks of it while listening to Daveth try to flirt at Tabris only to see it fail against the wall of her amused disdain like a bird against glass, while noticing Ser Jory's clenched jaw and the way he positions himself between the group and the dark reaches of the trees. Thinks of it most of all watching Tabris's quiet sense of wonder, looking around the dank misery of their surroundings like it's a royal garden. Any one of them could be a Warden, this time tomorrow; could be his new brother or sister in arms. Any one of them could be dead.

It leaves him quiet as they move through the wilds, but quiet is fine, distracted as he is by straining his senses as far as they can reach for the darkspawn that he knows are roaming the woods. He guides them away from the larger packs and keeps his inner 'ear' turned for smaller groups, safe to attack with a squad of four. They find two such packs over the course of the day, and Alistair is pleased by all three of them, who face down their first darkspawn with admirable aplomb. If Ser Jory's grip on his sword grows a bit too tight as the afternoon wears, and Daveth jumps a bit at shadows, well, Alistair's seen worse. None of them broke and went screaming into the woods at the first sight of Darkspawn up close, as did one of the recruits that Joined at the same time as Alistair. Never saw him again, either. There was no Blight then, so they were down in the Deep Roads. Poor bastard probably got eaten by a deepstalker. If he was lucky.

They do manage to make themselves useful as they go, finding a couple of survivors, not yet Blighted to the best Alistair can tell, and bandaging them up and pointing them back to Ostagar. He wishes that they could escort them back to safety themselves, but they can't spare the time. Alistair really, truly does not want to be out here any longer than he has to. Darkspawn may not be able to take him by surprise, but the Wilds are dangerous enough on their own. They've been ambushed by one Blight-maddened pack of wolves already, and Maker only knows what else is out there in the swamp.

When they make camp for the night they're getting fairly close to the old fortress where Duncan told them to search for the documents, but he's not willing to keep searching once night falls. Besides, they'd look veritable fools stumbling around in the dark looking for crumbling stacks of paper, and they still have to make the trek _back_ to Ostagar.

None of them want to risk the attention a fire might bring, so they just find a reasonably clear spot and lay out their bedrolls. They don't even divest themselves of armor in case of a midnight ambush, just wrap themselves in blankets and huddle close, talking in low voices. Alistair goes to sleep immediately, giving first watch to the others as the sun is barely down, knowing that he will have to be up for most of the night to sense any Darkspawn. In theory he should be able to feel any approach even in his sleep, but... well, who would want to risk it? It's just one night. He can sleep later, after they're safe back at Ostagar and the Joining is done.

When he wakes, hours later, he's not entirely sure what brings him to consciousness, just sits up and puts one hand to his sword, listening intently. Nothing. No Darkspawn, no wolves, no invaders of any kind that he can sense. Ser Jory is right out, deeply asleep despite his fear, but that's an old soldier's trick, no surprise there. Daveth looks to be in a light doze, though a twitch runs through his frame from time to time, nerves making themselves known even in his sleep. Tabris-

Tabris is sitting upright on a nearby log, finishing out their watch. She's doing something with a little pocket-knife, and there's a pile of small pale things on the ground next to her. He watches her from beneath half-closed eyes for a moment, looking at the way she bites her lip in concentration, before shaking it off and sitting up.

"Any trouble?"

"Unless you count Jory's snoring, no," she says dryly. "I can stay up for another hour or two, if you want to rest a bit longer. I know it's going to be a long night."

"Very thoughtful, but I think we should err on the side of caution." He rolls to his feet and stretches, letting a quiet groan rumble through his chest at the pop in his joints. He's not overfond of sleeping on hard ground, with no furs to ease his bones. He suspects _that's_ only going to get worse as he gets older, from what some of the others like to complain. "You should definitely get some sleep, though. Not everyone has Warden stamina."

"Ah. Um." She bites her lip and bends her head back to her work, but he can still see the smile that's trying to break free.

He wants to know what earned that smile, so he can figure out how to get another one. "What?"

"I was about to say something impolitic, but I thought better of it."

"Well, now you _have_ to tell me."

She glances at him sidelong out of the corner of her eye. "I was going to say I'd heard tales about Warden stamina. Though usually, they're somewhat focused around other matters than loss of sleep."

He clears his throat, trying desperately to pretend that he's not blushing like a fiend. "Recruit Tabris. You could have warned me that you are a brazen woman."

A dimple appears in her cheek. Maybe it's the haze of sleep still blurring his mind, but he finds himself almost hypnotized by it. "Only sometimes, Warden Alistair."

He shifts awkwardly on his heels, desperate to change the subject before it goes further downhill, and latches onto whatever it is she's fiddling with out of sheer self-defense. "What are you working on?"

She opens her palms and tilts them to show him the contents. A flower sits there, half-divested of its petals, and when he looks down, he realizes that the pile of things next to her are more of the same. As he watches, she takes the petals she's already cut free and dumps them into a small leather pouch sitting on the log next to her. "What _are_ those?"

"Wilds flower," she says. She jerks her chin towards the woods off to the left. "There's a huge patch of them right over there, down by the water."

"Yes, but why did you pluck so many of them?" he says, patiently.

"Oh, I- I suppose it's a favor," she shrugs. "For the kennel master back at camp. He's got a hound sick from darkspawn blood, says that these can be mixed into a poultice to draw out the poison. I promised him I'd pick some if I saw them, and with them so close to the camp…" He stares at her, and she trails off to a halt. "What?"

"You're out here hunting darkspawn in order to undertake a ritual that will change your life forever," he says.

"Yes?"

"And you're thinking about curing a sick hound?"

She shrugs again, a little more defensively this time. "We're here anyway, aren't we?"

He has to chuckle - quietly, so as not to wake the other two - and shake his head. "You're something else," he says.

She gives him a hesitant smile. "I think I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should." He buckles his sword back around his waist, then nudges it out of his way when he sits down on the log next to her. There’s not a lot of space, and he finds himself pressed up against her side, shoulder-to-shoulder, but this time she doesn’t flinch away. Encouraged, he holds out a hand. "Give me one."

This time her smile is bigger, even if she tries to hide it by bending over to grab a flower. "They have thorns," she warns him.

"Of course they do."

###### 

Later, he'll realize that wasn't a singular incident, but rather an omen of things to come. She’s helpless in the face of anyone who asks for help, his Tabris, adrift without her family to care for. Generous to a fault, no sooner does a coin cross her palm then it's gone to the next needy soul to cross her path. Most Wardens need to be taught the seriousness of their charge; responsibility, as he’ll soon learn, is the one lesson Tabris never needed.

He doesn't know that yet, though. They've only known one another for a pair of days, barely even that, and he doesn't understand, yet, just how incredibly important she'll become. To the world, yes, but also to him. He doesn't yet know that out of all the favors she'll do, all of the people she'll help, the one that she will transform the most will be him.

In fact, he doesn't even begin to understand, until he watches her felled by darkspawn in front of his very eyes, and wakes up to find out that he has only one person in the entire dark world to claim as his own. When she wakes too, and smiles at him and tells him that she's with him all the way...

Well, he doesn't have much of a choice about it. He's going to love her. He just doesn't know it yet.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [sorrelchestnut](https://sorrelchestnut.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
